


Eyes on the Prize

by AetherSeer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Bets & Wagers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: It's a harmless bet, just a competition to see who wins the regular-season scoring race, when Holts throws a wrench into everything. “Whoever loses does a playoff mullet instead of a beard.”
Relationships: Evgeny Kuznetsov/Tom Wilson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	Eyes on the Prize

**Author's Note:**

> Catznetsov (or possibly I did) made a comment about Kuz having a formative moment regarding mullets and his sexuality, and then it spiraled into the conversation that became this. Enjoy.

It’s mid-February when John brings it up while getting dressed after practice before they take on the Knights in enemy territory. “Kuzy or Whip. Who’s gonna get more goals by playoffs?”

The team devolves into a shouting match, and Zhenya ducks out of Tom’s reach, ignoring the hangdog look Tom throws him in response. Nicky finally shouts everyone into submission, passing the whiteboard marker to Hath to record bets one at a time.

It seems to have settled down, and then Holts throws a wrench into everything. “Whoever loses does a playoff mullet instead of a beard.”

Zhenya’s head whips up (ow, his neck reminds him) and he levels a glare at his goalie, who just quirks an irritatingly smug eyebrow at him as Garnet dutifully writes down that addition.

“I don’t know that I can pull that off,” Tom says, but holds up his hands in mock-surrender when he’s pelted accordingly with discarded tape balls and socks.

—“Sure, Mr. GQ”—

—“D.C. Bachelor of the Year”—

—“Got the call for the Body Issue last year, didn’t ya?”—

“What about V?” Zhenya puts in, when it doesn’t seem like anyone else is gonna comment on the other leading goalscorers on the team, let alone the two that are smoking the rest of them. “If he beat O, does O grow mullet?”

Heads swivel from Zhenya to O, sitting amused in his stall, to V’s startled face, to Holts. Holts strokes his beard thoughtfully—really drawing it out for effect, Zhenya thinks sourly—and shakes his head. The room erupts in noise, Carly and Osh yelling out alternative consequences, and Holts has to get everyone’s attention again.

“If V beats O for the Rocket,” Holts says, “O has to be the one to present it to him. Speech and all. On one knee.”

He waits a beat. “And PR’s gonna film it.”

V makes a quiet noise, and promptly gets noogied by an extremely enthusiastic Osh. The team swarms him and O then, the bet between Tom and Zhenya lost to the new focus of attention.

Zhenya tosses his sweaty jersey and pads into the collection bins and leans into Holts’ space as he passes by. “I tell you that confidential,” he mutters. Menacing isn’t really his forte, but he’s hoping his displeasure is showing.

“You told me that when you were wine-drunk, surrounded by our teammates, in Vancouver,” is Holts’ reply. “There was nothing confidential about it.”

“If you don’t want to see Tom in a mullet,” his infuriatingly smug goalie continues, “all you have to do is lose.”

Zhenya’s reply is more of a wordless shriek of frustration than anything else, devolving into hissed Russian obscenities as he scrubs off in the showers. Ilyusha, two showerheads over, gives him a mildly concerned look but thankfully minds his own business.

* * *

The season wears on.

Zhenya gets a goal. Tom gets two. 

Zhenya gets three in a row, and then goes cold for seven games. Tom adds a goal, three assists, and two more goals.

Zhenya gets his second career hat trick against the Wild in their barn, and gleefully collects all four of the red hats that hit the ice. Tom picks up a pair of assists and a goal besides.

Zhenya slides a beautiful lacrosse-style goal past Bernier, and Tom notches yet another overtime winner to propel them into the final week of the season.

The clock ticks down.

Carly springs Zhenya for a breakaway, flying down the ice, Panthers caught flatfooted outside their defensive zone.

Sergei Andreyevich’s fast; Zhenya’s faster.

The goal horn sounds, and Zhenya lifts his arms to the roof of Sunrise, Tom crashing into his side and V against his front. Carly’s momentum slides them all half a meter down the boards, and Kemper’s begun his head-bopping routine once more.

Zhenya crows his victory, smile split wide as he skates down the line of hand extended for fistbumps. Holts, as always, meets him at the end of the line, away from his net to celebrate with Zhenya.

“Two goals,” Holts yells over the crowd.

“What?”

“Tom needs two to win!”

Zhenya looks up at the Jumbotron, at the clock ticking down to the end of the season. 13:06 blinks back at him.

Oh, _ fuck. _

Tom gets his long-awaited Gordie Howe hat trick—a secondary assist on Zhenya’s goal, a beautiful short-handed goal with five minutes to go, and a scrap with Conno, of all people, over a hit on Siegs behind the net. He does not, however, get the hat trick Zhenya needed him to get.

Holts smirks at Zhenya from behind Tom’s broad back; Zhenya despairs.

* * *

The progression is slow.

Tom’s hair doesn’t noticeably grow much at all, and then he shakes his hair out after a fight during the Philadelphia series and it’s all Zhenya can focus on. He loses the puck to the little feisty Flyer—Konecny, who promptly gets rocked into the glass by Carly and the puck recovered by Kemper—just staring as Tom skates ahead of him.

And then he has to shake himself and head to the bench, resolutely _ not looking _ when Tom slides in next to him and nudges up against Zhenya’s shoulder. He has to focus on the game, and not the longer curls starting to cover the nape of Tom’s neck.

They scrape out a win in the fifth game, the Flyers sent home with their tails between their legs—and a few new bumps and bruises left behind (Zhenya’s shoulder _ aches _ after a collision with Provorov in game four).

Tom’s hair continues to take on its new shape, and Tom’s developed a new habit of fiddling with the longer curls where they poke out beneath his helmet. It draws Zhenya’s attention to Tom’s hands—not that he needed the help; Zhenya’s fantasized about just how much of his ass Tom’s hands can cover for a while now.

Right now, Tom’s knuckles are angry red and scabbed over, and likely won’t be healed in time for game one against the winner of the Hurricanes/Islanders series, despite that series dragging into seven games. The bloodied knuckles aren’t really a deterrent, if Zhenya’s honest with himself. More of a turn-on than not, given Tom had gotten bloodied fighting for _ Zhenya. _ (Couturier had come off worse, eye visibly bruised and swollen even from across the ice.)

Zhenya’s lost in thought enough that Osh startles him when he skates by and swerves around Zhenya with centimeters to spare.

Osh swings by for a second pass. This time, he slides to a stop and leans his full weight against Zhenya’s back, hooking his chin over Zhenya’s shoulder. “You’re staring again. Whip’s not that bad-looking that a mullet really hurts, does it?”

Zhenya shrugs him off. Osh rocks back onto his heels. “No.”

“No, what?” Osh shouts after him as Zhenya works himself up for a fast lap around the rink, shaking out his legs and stealing a puck away from Lars to snipe past Holts. Holts fair-snarls at Zhenya, distracted by V practicing one-timers enough that Zhenya’s shot rings true off the crossbar and in.

They end up playing the Hurricanes. It’s … ugly.

Zhenya prods at his lower lip with his tongue, the tang of copper bitter on his tongue as the team trudges up the gangway into the plane heading to Carolina after a split pair to tie the series. His lip throbs. Fucking Foegele.

Zhenya slumps into his seat on the plane. He’s mid-yawn, so he startles when he opens his eyes to a large travel mug just centimeters from his face. “Er.”

“It’s not coffee,” Tom says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not cruel.”

“How is cruel?” Zhenya wonders, taking the mug and taking a cautious sniff. Tea, from the smell, and maybe drinkable even.

“You think I’m gonna give _ you _ coffee? You’re jittery enough already, now we’re in playoffs.” His hair’s covered by a beanie—_toque, _ Braden’s voice inside Zhenya’s head corrects—but Zhenya can see the wet, curling ends dripping onto the collar of Tom’s shirt.

Tom ruffles Zhenya’s hair affectionately before continuing down the aisle, handing Nicky an even larger mug of what has to be coffee, if the thin smile Nicky gives Tom is any indication. O gets a can of Coke; Braden one of those ridiculous Starbucks iced drinks to loud laughter, before Tom switches it for Braden’s normal order and hands the iced coffee to Hath, who salutes him with it.

Coffee dispensed, Tom sinks into his seat opposite Zhenya and stretches out his legs as best he can. Even on the team plane, there’s only so much legroom. And Tom has a lot of leg. Not that Zhenya’s noticed, of course.

Zhenya sips his tea and tries to focus on breaking down the Hurricanes’ penalty kill. Thankfully, it’s a short flight.

Andrei Igorevich is an idiot, Zhenya decides, gingerly patting beneath his nose to check for blood as he skates to the bench. And he’s lucky that his teammates are always willing to bail him out, because Tom is circling with Martinook, not Andrei.

Serbus tips Zhenya’s face back, checking him for blood, as soon as Zhenya swings his legs over the boards, so Zhenya actually misses the moment Tom’s helmet comes off. But he _ doesn’t_—can’t _ possibly_—miss Tom shaking his hair back, a sluggish trickle of bright red trickling down his cheek from a split eyebrow.

Tom’s hair isn’t usually what Zhenya would call curly. But now, dark and damp from sweat, it curls against the vulnerable nape of Tom’s neck as Tom heads down the tunnel for the final four minutes of the game.

Zhenya does _ not _ whimper, if only because Serbus is still watching him like a hawk for injury.

Tom heads down the tunnel for the remainder of the period, Martinook stomping off to the visitors’ locker room on the other side of the benches. Andrei skates by slowly enough for Zhenya to bare his teeth and snarl out a threat. The Swedish feels mangled on his tongue, but it’s filthier than anything else that comes to mind.

Lars, multi-lingual, SHL-alum Lars, chokes on his water beside Zhenya; Zhenya absently pats his knee.

Andrei stares, and then flushes alarmingly red. Zhenya narrows his eyes. Andrei flees for the safety of his own bench before the refs can escort him there.

The game ends mercifully soon, with another win to put them through to the conference finals. Zhenya mobs Ilyusha with the rest of their teammates, narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face by an overenthusiastic Kemper, and whoops his way down the tunnel after Osh’s breakneck pace.

Tom’s waiting for them in the locker room, still in his pads and skates, like he hasn’t sat down since he was sent off the ice.

Zhenya ducks his head to avoid Tom’s devastatingly effective puppy eyes, and focuses on unknotting his skates. If he’s fast enough, he can get to the showers before the media get done with Nicky and Sasha. The sooner he can escape the media crush, the sooner he can go home.

And the sooner he can get himself off to the image of Tom seared into his brain.

They touch down in D.C. after midnight to the cheering of diehard fans waiting at the airport. Zhenya wavers for a minute, half-wanting to trail after Tom to his monster of a truck, but Ilyusha is visibly drooping next to him and Zhenya’s responsible for the care and feeding of his rookie.

So he throws his suitcase into the back with Ilyusha’s and turns over the engine once his goalie is buckled in, yawning and turning his face into the cool glass.

Zhenya’s just come to a stop for a red light, windshield wipers clearly away the light rain that’s begun to fall, when Ilyusha’s voice cuts through the background radio. “Why haven’t you said anything before?”

“Anything about what?” Zhenya asks, double-checking that no one’s running the red light before accelerating. D.C. drivers aren’t Russians, but they’re still unpredictable at best.

“Tom,” Ilyusha says clearly. Zhenya glances over, but Ilyusha still has his face turned away, watching the buildings outside the car as they drive past. “You’re always watching him, but you never say anything to him.”

Zhenya wets his lips. Apparently Braden isn’t the only one who’s noticed. Zhenya chalks it up to them both being goalies, always watching everything—and everyone.

“I—”

“Just,” Ilyusha says quietly, “please just _ do _ something already if you’re going to.”

He still hasn’t looked at Zhenya, so Zhenya can’t tell what he’s thinking … if he’s just tired or if he disapproves of Zhenya’s choices, or ... Zhenya shuts his mouth and drives, fingers tight on the wheel.

The rain’s coming down properly when Zhenya pulls up to the curb at Ilyusha’s building. Ilyusha clicks off his seatbelt, and pauses. He turns in his seat, folding all 6’2” of himself to be smaller, and just looks at Zhenya for a minute.

“I don’t know if you’ve said anything before,” he starts, “or how it went. But if you haven’t, well, you might want to know you’re not the only one looking.”

Tom’s doorman recognizes Zhenya and waves him up without a fuss, which means that Tom opens his apartment door still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, barefoot in well-worn sweats. Zhenya hands over Tom’s coffee and keeps his own tea for himself, making a beeline for Tom’s couch and settling into the corner.

His fingers play with the paper label, nails catching at the edges. But it gives him something other than Tom’s bedhead to focus on.

Objectively, Zhenya knows, Tom’s a handsome man. Even discounting the things Zhenya knows about him, Tom’s good-looking enough to stop people, both women and men alike, in their tracks. And once you add in how much Zhenya _ does _ know about him, like how he calls his mama every week, like how much he looks up to and admires his grandpapa, like how good he is with all the team’s kids and his own charity kids, well … Zhenya’s only human.

Tom takes a sip of his coffee, closing the apartment door with a quiet click. He looks surprised and double-checks the label on his drink. Zhenya’s mildly insulted; they’ve been teammates for five years, and Tom’s drink order isn’t that complicated.

Zhenya sips his tea. It’s bitter on his tongue, but it’s warm. And it means he has an excuse not to talk.

Tom sits down on the other end of the couch and flicks a strand of hair out of his face. Zhenya tracks it automatically. Tom doesn’t miss it. “So,” Tom says slowly.

Zhenya licks his lips. “Ilyusha says I maybe didn’t miss my chance,” he says quickly, like saying it fast will keep Tom from missing what Zhenya’s trying to say. “That I maybe been looking lots, but maybe not the only one looking.”

Tom blinks, visibly parsing Zhenya’s sentence in his head.

“That maybe,” Zhenya tries again, “maybe you look at me same way I been watching you.”

Zhenya drops his gaze, watches Tom’s long fingers curl around the paper cup. When he peeks back up, Tom’s watching him, an odd expression on his face.

Tom shifts, setting his coffee on his coffee table and scooting close enough to pluck Zhenya’s tea out of his hands and set it aside. Zhenya opens his mouth to protest, but doesn’t get out a single word before Tom interrupts, “Stop me if I read this all wrong,” and cups Zhenya’s face in one giant, warm hand to kiss him.

Zhenya _ might _ let out a whimper, but he manages to kick his brain back into gear quickly enough to get his hands in Tom’s hair. His hands sink into those soft strands, still smashed flat on one side from where Tom slept on them, and there’s plenty for him to tangle in his fingers.

Tom makes a quiet noise into the kiss when Zhenya tugs him in by the hair, but obliges in scooting closer. His beard, kept cropped close this playoffs, is rough against Zhenya’s chin, but nothing Zhenya wasn’t prepared for.

Zhenya’s not sure when they slipped down on the couch, but Tom makes for a nice blanket, if a bit heavy, and Zhenya can feel just how into him Tom is through those thin sweats. Zhenya has a hand under one of Tom’s million white t-shirts, the other still cupping the vulnerable nape of Tom’s neck as they trade kisses.

It’s nice. Zhenya’s lips are buzzing as much as his head, feeling oddly light. It almost feels like he’s drunk, but not as fuzzy. Zhenya knows exactly where he is and what he’s doing, and with whom. Tom’s hips jerk when Zhenya gropes his ass, rocking against Zhenya’s thigh.

Tom shudders and groans, breaking the kiss to drop his head to Zhenya’s collarbone. His breath is warm and damp. “You—”

“Me?” Zhenya wonders, getting himself a better handful.

Tom makes another noise, nose pressed to Zhenya’s skin. He drops a kiss there, lips soft. “I have a bed,” he says. “If you—” He breaks off and pushes himself up, away from Zhenya.

Zhenya tries to follow, but ends up propped on his elbows, Tom too far away to reach. “What?”

Tom runs a hand through his hair, raking it away from his face, mouth twisting. He glances away from Zhenya, then back.

Zhenya recognizes that expression. It’s one Tom gets when he’s made up his mind. Hopefully, it’s something they agree on this time.

“This isn’t just because of the mullet thing, is it?” Tom asks. “Like, it’s fine if it is, but—”

“No, no,” Zhenya hurries to say before Tom can look any sadder. “The mullet—” Zhenya fights his tongue and English for the words. “It’s catapult. No. What’s word?”

“Catalyst?” Tom offers, a smile starting to tug at his mouth.

“Yes! That’s word,” Zhenya says. “Catalyst.”

“You wanted this—me—before, then,” Tom says, and Zhenya just stares at him for half a second—at Tom, big, beautiful Tom with his heart of gold, who’s always, _ always _ risen to the challenge of protecting Zhenya on and off the ice.

“Yes,” Zhenya says, and tackles him.

Tom goes down laughing, and now Zhenya’s the one acting as a blanket, narrow hips settling easily between Tom’s spread thighs. Tom’s tall, but so is Zhenya, and half of Tom’s height is in his legs. It’s enough that their faces nearly match up, enough where Zhenya can nip at the tender underside of Tom’s jaw and consider how juvenile it’d be to put a hickey there as claim.

He’s tempted to do it anyway, just to see the guys’ reactions at practice.

Tom shudders when Zhenya sets his teeth to the corner of Tom’s ridiculous jaw, tipping his head back and baring even more neck. Zhenya can see his throat work from a handful of centimeters away. “I do, nn, have a bed,” Tom tells the ceiling.

Zhenya considers it for half a second; a bed certainly would give him the room he wants to spread Tom out and look his fill. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Okay,” Tom echoes, and doesn’t move. His eyes crinkle in a smile; Zhenya wants to trace every line on his big broad face.

“What?” Zhenya asks.

“You’re the one sitting on me,” Tom points out. He does move then, a surge of muscle beneath Zhenya’s weight to prop himself up on his elbows, one foot sliding to the floor. Zhenya’s neck protests the change in position as he tries to keep eye contact.

Zhenya swears and scrambles to his feet, narrowly avoiding barking his shin on the coffee table.

Tom’s bed is even bigger than Zhenya’s own—definitely big enough to fit them both with room to spare. Zhenya studies it, Tom coming up behind him, and flips the duvet down to the bottom of the bed. Tom’s sheets are a dark blue—Caps navy—and Zhenya approves.

Tom tries to edge past Zhenya, and that simply won’t do.

Zhenya hooks a finger in the waistband of Tom’s thin sweatpants and gives just a light tug, really.

Tom stops and looks back over his shoulder at Zhenya.

Zhenya tugs again.

Tom pivots on the ball of his foot, stepping into Zhenya’s space. Like this, so close, he makes Zhenya feel smaller, more aware of the height and weight advantages Tom has on him. Like this, Zhenya shivers to realize, he’s protected by Tom’s bulk.

He tips his face up for a kiss; Tom obliges, one big palm coming around to press against the small of Zhenya’s back. Zhenya instinctively arches, his own hands coming back up to tug at Tom’s hair until he moans and lets Zhenya take charge again.

“Go sit,” Zhenya says as he breaks the kiss. He could easily get lost in kissing Tom for hours, but they don’t have hours right now, and Zhenya really does want to get his hands all over Tom. Preferably without clothes.

Tom sneaks another kiss to the corner of Zhenya’s mouth, but obediently perches on the edge of his own bed, hands on his thighs. Zhenya notes just how much of Tom’s own thigh is covered, not for the first time, and licks his lips. And then shimmies out of his hoodie in time to see Tom’s fingers dig in, just a little bit.

_ Oh. _ Zhenya chances a peek at Tom’s face, and teases at the hem of his t-shirt. Tom swallows, throat working. And flushes when he sees Zhenya watching. _ Interesting. _

“You like,” Zhenya says, his delight audible to his own ears.

Tom’s flush deepens, and he licks his lips in a nervous habit Zhenya knows from on the ice.

“Get more comfortable,” Zhenya orders, and watches with interest when Tom obeys, setting his back to his own headboard and drawing his knees up as if to shield himself from Zhenya’s gaze. “No, no, let me see,” Zhenya corrects, even more delighted when a red-faced Tom straightens his legs back out against the sheets, tented sweats on display once more.

“Good,” Zhenya says, and Tom visibly shivers. _ Very interesting. _Zhenya makes a note to explore that later, when they have more time. For now, he takes his time taking off his clothes—skinning out of his shirt and dropping it to the side, bending down to actually untie his shoes before slipping them off with his socks and catching Tom’s hurried inhale.

The hardwood floor of the apartment is cold against Zhenya’s toes. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband and watches as Tom’s eyes drop, landing right where Zhenya wants him to notice, where Zhenya’s just as visibly into this, whatever _ this _ is, as Tom.

Zhenya unzips his jeans, mentally giving thanks that he’d grabbed the pair that both makes his ass look fantastic and don’t take a lot of ungainly wiggling to get out of. He doesn’t bother with teasing them with that reveal, just drops them and his briefs in one motion and steps out of the puddle before stepping closer.

Tom’s eyes drop even further, and his cheeks flame. Zhenya wants to get his mouth back on the lower lip Tom’s currently gnawing on; wants to kiss Tom until he’s gasping for air.

Zhenya’s pretty sure there’s no way to make crawling sexy, but Tom’s in the middle of the fucking enormous bed, so crawl he does until he can straddle Tom’s lap. Tom makes a wounded noise when Zhenya perches on his thighs and cups his cock and balls, still cradled in fabric. Tom’s definitely freeballing by the feel of it, just a single layer of cloth separating their skin.

Zhenya slides his other hand under Tom’s t-shirt and tugs it up. Tom’s let things grow a bit wild for the playoffs, and Zhenya likes it, shoving Tom’s shirt to bunch beneath his armpits and enjoying the feel of coarse hair beneath his fingers. It’s not quite long enough to twine his fingers through, but it’s getting there. Zhenya remembers that _ vividly _ from the Cup run two years ago.

“Kuzy,” Tom starts to ask, and then twitches when Zhenya flicks a nail over his nipple. “What do you—”

“Want you,” Zhenya answers, meeting Tom’s blue, blue eyes to make sure Tom knows he’s serious. “Anything you wanna give to me, I want.”

Tom makes another noise, and yanks his shirt over his head, throwing it to join Zhenya’s clothes on the floor. “I want everything,” he says, pulling Zhenya in by the thighs, getting his own handful of hockey ass. 

Zhenya kisses him.

Tom urges Zhenya up onto his knees so Tom can wiggle his way out of his sweats and then there’s nothing but skin when Zhenya resumes his perch on Tom’s lap. Tom’s hands find their way to Zhenya’s ass again, nearly big enough to cover all of it, and Zhenya can appreciate that.

Tom responds well to Zhenya’s lips and teeth on his neck. And collarbone. And nipples. And those soft spots just inside his hip, so close to his cock that Zhenya can feel its heat. He might be imagining that, but Zhenya does press a softer kiss to the jut of Tom’s hip as a pseudo-apology before he continues learning which spots make Tom twitch and jerk.

“Kuzy,” Tom sighs, hand fluttering uselessly for a second before settling in Zhenya’s hair and tugging lightly. “Please.”

Zhenya leaves another mark that’ll darken to purple, high on the inside of Tom’s thigh, before he turns his attention back to Tom’s face, to where Tom’s thighs are trembling with the strain of keeping still. “Please, please, please,” Tom near-begs. “You—”

“Me?” Zhenya smiles, slow and satisfied.

“You’re such a goddamn _ tease,_” Tom bites out. “I’ve wanted this for _ ages, _ and it took me growing a fucking _ mullet, _ and now you won’t even—”

Tom’s cock is warm and smooth in Zhenya’s hand, wet enough from Zhenya’s playing that he doesn’t even need to ask where Tom keeps his lube. Tom makes a high noise of surprise in the back of his throat—a throat Zhenya wants to mark up more—and shudders, thighs bunching and hands clenching.

Zhenya winces when Tom accidentally pulls his hair. “Ow,” he reprimands, and is rewarded by Tom instantly releasing his head, which then gives Zhenya all the freedom of movement he needs to readjust his grip to stroke them off together, knees tight to Tom’s hips.

Zhenya’s never ridden a horse bareback, but he imagines it has to be similar to having Tom shiver and shake apart beneath him, big body shifting Zhenya along for the ride. Tom’s knees come up, tipping Zhenya forward over his chest, and he bucks into Zhenya’s grip, cocks sliding messily against one another in the half-circle of Zhenya’s fingers.

Tom’s big, enough that Zhenya can’t close his fingers around both their cocks. But he doesn’t have the leverage to hold himself up without the help of his other hand. And Tom’s still _ moving _ beneath him, the tilt of his thighs slip-sliding Zhenya fully onto his knees over Tom.

This is not exactly going to plan.

Zhenya lets a frustrated noise escape when Tom’s cock slips out of his grip on the upstroke, coinciding with Tom shifting yet again beneath him, and Tom freezes. “Kuzy?”

“Just—let me—” Zhenya says, and sits back, letting Tom’s bent knees act as a backrest.

Tom looks uncertain, lost. Zhenya _ hates _ that; he wants Tom to look like he had before, lost in pleasure. Pleasure Zhenya’s giving him.

Zhenya abandons his original plan. Clearly, he’d missed important details, and he has a winger to kiss back into compliance. So he does, crawling up to put them chest-to-chest, planting tiny butterfly kisses to Tom’s jaw, cheek, eyelids, nose. By the time he gets to Tom’s mouth, Tom’s relaxed again, hands settling at the dip of Zhenya’s back as they trade kisses.

Zhenya rolls his hips down, the delicate head of his cock catching and rubbing against Tom’s ridiculous abs, and Tom’s fingers dig in. Zhenya might end up with fingerprint bruises to match the marks his teeth have left on Tom. He rolls his hips again; Tom gets a handhold on Zhenya’s ass, and then Tom’s cock slides into the groove of Zhenya’s pelvis like it belongs there, a slick slip-slide as they rut against each other.

Tom comes first, semen spattering Zhenya’s belly and matting his own chest hair. Zhenya ducks his head, fastens his mouth to the join of Tom’s shoulder, and _ bites. _ Tom shouts and shudders, and his hand jerks Zhenya tight against him.

Zhenya adds to the mess between them, mouthing at the perfect imprint of his teeth in Tom’s skin as Tom sucks in heaving breaths beneath him.

“God, we’re a mess,” Tom says weakly, head tipped back into the pillows. He’s tracing some sort of pattern on Zhenya’s back.

Zhenya pulls back far enough to try and look at Tom directly, because that wasn’t what he was going for to be perfectly honest. “A mess?”

“Yeah. Not like, a _ mess,_” Tom tries to correct himself, “but like, we’re gonna need a shower before practice.”

Zhenya looks to the right, where the clock should be, but there’s just empty walls. Tom reaches to his right and fumbles his phone into his hand. “Shit, we’re gonna be late if we don’t get going,” Tom says, wide-eyed.

Zhenya’s tempted, but also doesn’t want Coach Todd to chew them out for slacking off before conference finals. So he concedes, rolling off Tom with a sticky slurping noise, which sends them both into giggles.

Tom just out of the shower is now going to be a _ Problem, _ Zhenya realizes too late, helplessly tracing the path of a water droplet from the ends of Tom’s gently-curling mullet down his chest to the jeans he’s now zipping up.

Tom, perhaps sensing Zhenya’s hungry stare, looks up and catches Zhenya in the act. Zhenya watches as Tom figures out what Zhenya’s looking at, and then the smug realization, shoulders straightening even as he throws a towel at Zhenya. “C’mon, get going. If we’re late to practice, we’ll get bag-skated, and then you’ll fall asleep in the showers.”

Zhenya wrinkles his nose indignantly. He would _ not, _ that’s gross even by hockey player standards. But Tom’s shrugging on yet another of his endless white t-shirts, covering up all but one of Zhenya’s marks. That one, Zhenya notes, is placed just high enough that even Tom’s collared shirts won’t hide it. And Tom’s realized it, poking at it with gentle fingers.

Tom’s plaintive, resigned tone—“Kuz, you’re a fucking vampire!”—follows him into the shower, where Zhenya happily steals Tom’s bodywash and shampoo. If he takes a sniff of himself after washing, no one else is ever gonna know.

They drive separately, even though neither of them really think it’ll do much to deter their nosy-as-fuck teammates from figuring it out.

That does mean that Zhenya has to break a speed limit or five to make sure he beats Tom with enough time to be halfway into his pads by the time Tom walks in the door. Zhenya looks up when Carly lets out a low whistle, just in time to watch Tom’s blush bright red, arms still tangled in his sleeves.

“Damn!” Carly yells. “You hook up with a Hoover last night, Whip?”

Tom doesn’t even get to open his mouth before Ilyusha’s not-so-muffled laugh draws everyone else’s attention.

Ilyusha, faced with fifteen curious faces, just quirks an expressive eyebrow before Braden connects the dots and whips his head around to stare at Zhenya. Zhenya makes a face right back at his starter and bends down to attend to his skates.

“Yep, that’d be our Tommy’s mitts,” Braden says, and what? Zhenya straightens back up to ask Braden what the _ fuck _ that was supposed to mean when he registers the cool air on his lower back where his underarmor’s ridden up and—fuck. The bruises.

“I—”

“—won the bet, yeah, we _ know,_” Braden finishes for him with an eyebrow waggle. “Nice job keeping your eyes on the prize.” He pats Zhenya’s shoulder and waddles off to corral Osh from poking Tom’s collection of hickeys and maybe ruffle Tom’s hair himself.


End file.
